Where the Waves Meet the Shore
by TheManxomeFoe
Summary: After a brief encounter in a small coastal town, a sinful Spanish pirate and a pious young Italian find their lives irrevocably entwined. Though seemingly insurmountable obstacles threaten to stifle the sparks, will the two men discover love at sea?
1. Prologue

_It has been some years since I have lied on the rough sand like this. I must admit, it is lovely to simply rest as the chilled azure swirls caress my skin and the taste of the salty air soaks my tongue._

_The water is beautiful, truly. The colour of sapphires. I have seen dozens of the precious jewels in my time yet none can compare to the allure of the waves. _

_I would sooner possess the sea than the stones._

_The ship is elsewhere, somewhere far along the rippling waters that soothe my aches and cool my burning flesh. God, do not let them find me here. Not yet. I long only for the sweet repose I find on the coastline. Finally I can be again._

_The scene is serene, heavenly even, but something is missing._

_A gust of wind flows from the north, and a flurry of green leaves dances over my head and consumes my sight. One such bit of foliage lands upon the bridge of my nose. The sensation tickles slightly, but I make no effort to remove the object. Everything else melts away as I see only green._

_Green. Green. Green. _

_Green is lively and familiar. _

_What is green?_

_Antonio is green, or he was once, at least. Are those emerald orbs that stole my heart and pierced my soul still green, I wonder? Could they still shine as they once did when he was mine and I was his?_

_With every sunrise behind the rich blue forever surrounding me, I feel my hope fall softly and the grim reality press against my chest like a rock, rendering each breath heavy and painful._

_They do not. _

_Not after what happened._

* * *

**And thus concludes the prologue to my new piece. As this is the preface it is written in a different format from what you can expect from the rest of the story. Starting with the first chapter it will be in the traditional style. The story is (obviously) about Pirate!Spain and Altarboy!Romano, and if you don't like the pairing I don't recommend reading. **

**Spamano is such a great ship.**

**-Manx**


	2. Chapter 1

**Hey guys, Manx here! Sorry for the huge wait! I hope the Spamano makes up for it!**

* * *

On the first day, Lovino swept the grey stone of the church floor in silence. His younger brother Feliciano was mercifully occupied elsewhere, allowing him to work with little interruption. The work was tedious at best, and though Lovino was prone to indolent urges, he performed his duties every day without fail. He found peace in the humble church settled within his small town on the Italian coast.

The floors were made of a dull grey stone smoothed from many years of wear. The walls matched the floors, the same dark grey. Were it not for the large windows on the building's sides, it would have been dismal. The only furniture in the church's interior consisted of only those items necessary for a holy place to function. A dozen rickety wooden pews, a small organ, a platform that Father Roma stood upon when he gave his sermons with a great silver cross nailed to the wall behind it. Truthfully, the place was quite barren, and the dark candlelight filled the empty church will ghosts. Lovino had never left the confines of his modest town, yet he had heard the tales from the occasional traveller who arrived in their meagre port of the grandiose structures built in Europe's greatest cities. Thankfully, the large stained glass windows offered aesthetic appeal, and when the sun stood in the sky just so, the falsely dull surroundings would illuminate with twirling shades of red, green, orange, yellow and blue. Ah, how Mary sparkled in the sunlight, her holy son cradled softly in her arms…

Lovino yelped as his feet abruptly left the ground and his chest crashed against the floor. He glared at the offending object, an innocent-looking pew. The Italian massaged his chest, and muttered a string of curses under his breath.

However, his body froze when he heard a muffled chuckle behind him. He turned slowly, his expression enraged though he felt pure horror. The man behind him was not someone he knew.

"I apologize," he said, a hand pressed against his mouth to stifle his laughter. "I cannot help it! Eso fue tan adorable!" Lovino's blush deepened.

The man leaned nonchalantly against the doorframe. His tanned skin, the clear product of many hours in the sun, was youthful and warm. His hair was long-longer than a man's should be, Lovino thought- but he wore it well, tied on the right side of his head by a weathered red ribbon. The luminescent green orbs below his brow were peppered with sparkling patches of mirth. Dressed in a rich pine green coat with tassels of gold, his apparel was excessively embellished. A lesser black cross swung loosely around his neck.

He was beautiful.

Not that Lovino took an interest, of course. It was merely an observation, and his attention was most certainly not absorbed by the mysterious man who stood before him. He hurriedly rose to his feet, and scowled at the intruder while he flashed the most intimidating glare he could summon in his direction. "What do you want, bastard?"

The man positively beamed at the comment. He threw his head back in a low of pitch yet oddly melodious laugh.

"Lovino! You must not speak in such a way! If you truly wish to lead a life in the church you must learn to curb your tongue." The disapproving voice belonged to Father Roma, who's white robes glowed a dim orange from the candlelight.

"I apologize, Father. Please forgive me." The older man sighed.

"Just finish your work, Lovino… In silence." The younger man frowned at the last part and begrudgingly picked up the broom to continue his sweeping. He half-listened as Father Roma and the other man spoke: something about the stranger seeking to stay at the church for a few days. However, one part did resonate in the Italian's mind.

The man's name was Antonio Carriedo.

Why did those words sound so familiar?

* * *

On the second day of Antonio's stay, Lovino had enough of the simpleton. The townspeople fawned over him during the morning services. Especially the young women. Like wolves they gathered round Antonio (their prey) eyes hungry. Despite their outward fragility, women could be quite fearsome if they so desired. The fool encouraged their behaviour. Smiling and making polite conversation while the ladies vied for his attention. The Italian could only stare in bewilderment at the scene that played before his eyes, for he had lived in the town as long as he could remember, yet no one had ever paid him much attention. Feli perhaps, but not him.

As if the bastard could hear his thoughts, Antonio's gaze met his own. The imbecile's grin widened and the man winked, almost enticingly. Lovino's face heated in what he assumed was humiliation.

He almost forgot to glower at the imbecile.

He could not fathom why.

That night while they dined, Feli and Antonio seemed to get on well together. It was just as the short-tempered Italian had expected, after all, they were both utter dolts, thoughtless beings. He ignored their inane chatter, his sight drawn to Antonio's earring. To think he had not noticed sooner. He watched, entranced, as the dangling bauble bounced with every movement of the other man's head. The electric green twinkling in its dance as the light hit it from different angles. The Italian was spellbound. That was, until he heard the upsetting new direction his company's conversation had taken.

"Antonio, Lovi does not care for ladies!" Feli gushed. Lovino's jaw dropped in horror and he found himself unable to form the words necessary to stop his imminent mortification.

"Oh?" The bastard appeared genuinely confused by the statement. He cocked his head to the side, and his sight shifted from the more to jovial youth to the lesser one.

"Ve~ it is true! Lovi he has no desire for pretty woman of his own. He told me so himself!" Lovino had to halt his twin's indiscrete mouth before the situation worsened.

"Enough Feli! Lord smite me if you are not the most wretched person in all of Italy!" He stood violently, the force thrusting Lovino's chair several feet away. He could hear his brother whimpering, though he was too enraged to care. Instead of apologizing he stormed directly to his room and collapsed upon his bed with an angry huff. He beat his pillow until his strength left him. Afterwards, he was lulled to sleep by the steady rhythm of the waves of his shame and self-hatred.

* * *

Lovino did not see Antonio at all on the third day.

Perhaps it was better that way.

However, he did recall exactly where he heard the man's name.

It was a few months ago, in the winter when travellers would often seek shelter within the church walls. A lethargic Greek man stayed with them for a time, and whenever he was awake (which was admittedly, not very often), he would tell stories of his travels. In one such tale, the merchant ship on which he worked was raided by pirates. Antonio Carriedo, the Spanish pirate, was the villains' captain.

Antonio Carriedo.

He could not be a pirate, could he?

* * *

Antonio stayed in the church on the fourth day, but Lovino made no effort to interact with him. Quite the opposite, in fact, for he ensured he was never in the same room with the man with the exception of mealtimes.

* * *

On the fifth day, Lovino was dutifully cleaning, as he always did before he retired to his room for the night. However, that night Antonio chose to join him. He sat upon the nearest pew wordlessly. Thankfully, he said nothing about the incident the other night; however Lovino rapidly grew concerned at the man's uncharacteristic quiet. As the Italian worked, he continued to sit. He continued to be silent. Lovino could feel the nagging question pulsing in his throat until he felt he would burst.

"Bastard," he began, "what is it you do for a living?" Antonio did not respond immediately, his hands fiddling with the buttons of his coat.

"Why do you ask?" Antonio finally said. Lovino found himself irritated with the answer (or question, really).

"Just tell me, you stupid bastard!" Antonio laughed, and Lovino's breath caught in his throat.

"Well… I supposed you could say I find my wealth at sea." He rubbed his neck in his discomfort. Lovino scowled. He knew it! He knew it! The merry fool was a criminal! He was vexed before, but now he was livid.

"But that is not true, is it? No! You are just a… a…" words were suddenly difficult to form in Lovino's head, "a _pirate_. A sinning, scheming scoundrel, and… and how dare you come here to our town and our church?!" Lovino clutched the broom so hard it audibly cracked.

"Is that what has been bothering you, Lovi?" The Spaniard asked sympathetically as he rose to his feet and approached the smaller of the two. Lovino felt himself grow warm because Antonio was so _close_, and the bastard wrapped his rough yet gentle hands around Lovino's wrists and soothingly stroked his knuckles as his heart thundered louder than a summer storm.

"Lovi," Antonio pried the broom from his tight grip. "You should get some rest. I can finish here, yes?" Lovino instantly felt sick, and rest seemed like an excellent idea, so he merely gave Antonio a curt nod and ran to the solitary relief of his room.

Lovi. Only his brother called him by such a name. Oddly, however, the Italian was not bothered by it at all.

* * *

Lovino awoke ill the morning of the sixth day. There was an unfamiliar pain in his chest and he did not leave his room the entire day, despite his brother's coaxing.

He could not prevent his mind from wandering to the Spaniard, nor could he prevent the warm blush that formed on his cheeks when he did so.

* * *

On the seventh day Lovino came across the Spaniard kneeling before the cross.

"What are you doing?" Lovino scowled. The taller man stood and turned his body to face him, his lips upturned in a smile.

"I am praying! Is it so shocking?"

Lovino hesitated, perplexed by Antonio's answer. "You do not seem the sort to pray."

"Why do you say that? I happen to be quite devout, in my way." The other man was grinning like an idiot.

"But you are a…" Lovino hesitated for a moment. "pirate. Your very lifestyle is a sin. "

"And I ask forgiveness for my sins from God every chance I get. What manner of monster do you think I am, Lovi?" The pirate's grin was wide, his eyes twinkling mercilessly.

"You ask forgiveness and then you go right on with your sinning?" Lovino asked, honestly confused by the Spaniard's faulty logic.

"God has never objected. Why should you?"

"Because…" He did not know how to respond. What was the correct reply to such an absurd question? What would Father Roma say to the Spaniard were he asked the same thing? This bizarre man did not make any sense at all! "That is stupid. You are stupid, Spanish bastard."

He laughed and the Italian was suddenly reminded of church bells in the young morning. Of the simple comforts which he had known for as long as he could remember. It was strange the way Lovino lately found himself comparing Antonio to the perpetual fixtures of his life, as if after a measly week the pirate had become a constant figure. He retired much later in the evening than he did before, having revised his schedule since the Spaniard's arrival.

Oh, Lovino did not like this at all.

* * *

The sun was high and the weather was lovely on the afternoon of the eighth day. But instead of enjoying the beautiful summer on the Italian coast, he was copying religious texts on the church's cool floor. This was ordinary. What was not ordinary, however, was the company of his twin brother, who would usually be running through the grassy fields with a gaggle of girls behind him.

"Lovi~?" Feli asked, his voice quiet and slightly nervous.

"Can you not see I am busy!" The elder snapped.

"Ve~ I apologise fratello." Lovino sighed. His brother could be highly pathetic at times. His concentration already broken, he decided to see where his brother would choose to lead this conversation.

"What is it you want from me, Feli?" He glanced up at his brother who was awkwardly fiddling with his hands.

"I was wondering if…" He trailed off. "If you were… um… fond of Toni?" Lovino felt a spark of anger surge through his body at the familiarity which Feli sometimes expressed with the Spaniard.

"What do you mean?"

"At times you seem rather, er…. taken with him, so I…" Lovino went rigid. Taken? Was Feli implying…?

"Taken? As in… As in besotted? What in the world gave you such a ridiculous idea, Feli?"

"Fratello," the younger twin placed a hand on Lovino's shoulder. "I know you better than anyone." Lovino recoiled from the touch.

"Well, you are wrong! I cannot believe what you are suggesting! Do you even realize what you are saying?! Antonio is a man, and a fool no less. Taken with him… you could not be farther from the truth! Do you think I would turn my back on God?!" The sad look in Feli's eyes... his brother did not need to answer to make his feelings known. Lovino rose, his papers forgotten on the floor, and he stalked away to his room. He propped the handle with a chair, buried his face into his pillow and cried.

* * *

On the last day, nine since the Spaniard washed up on their doors and met Lovino in the most humiliating way possible. After yesterday's talk with his brother, the Italian almost elected not to do his nightly chores and risk the wrath of Father Roma. He changed his mind, however, as it seemed wrong to end Antonio's visit on such a note.

"So… You are leaving," the Italian stated, his voice free of its characteristic venom. The Spaniard nodded listlessly, his eyesight concentrated on the stone floor.

"You should come with me Lovi." His voice was soft. "You are not meant for this life, I know you are not. We could have such excitement on the endless blue sea, Lovi. You cannot even imagine…" The Italian supposed he was being open, perhaps more so than he had been the past two weeks. The pirate had shed his swaggering guise, exposing his true self to him. Not to Feli, not to anyone else. Only Lovino.

"I..." He gripped his broom firmly. Antonio stepped towards him and touched his hands the same way he had the other night. Though Lovino flinched, he did not release his hold. Antonio's eyes searched his, although what he searched for the Italian did not know. Antonio may not have even known. All Lovino understood was that, for some mad reason, the bastard wanted Lovino to accompany him on his adventures.

But he could not. He had a life, and was working diligently to gain Father Roma's respect and recognition within the church. He had a brother too, and God knows Feli would fall apart without Lovino there to take care of him. He hated the stupid Spaniard for what he did to him! He loathed how the man's mere presence made his heartbeat wild and his face warm.

"No, Antonio. I will not." It killed him. It killed him to say it, but he had to do so. His heart dearly wanted to leave his bleak town and try his hand at a life at sea. But his head was much more rational and intelligent than his traitorous heart, and its voice much louder and more clear.

"As you wish." His teeth were gritted when he said it. His body was stiff and the hopeful shine in his eyes evaporated as if it had never existed at all. His posture adjusted and he released Lovino's hands stiffly. "Fine," he spat, "It is not as if I care! Fester away in this hollow town! Die a slave to your pointless rules, and see if I am bothered!"

Lovino just watched, his heart breaking, as the most infuriating, most vexing, most captivating man he had ever met walked out of his life

But not for long.

* * *

**Yeah, I'll admit it. Major fanservice going on at the end. Once again, I'm sorry for the wait. I finished over a week ago, but everytime I looked at the piece I found some error or felt the need to alter a scene slightly. I eventually decide just to publish the damn thing!**

**Special thanks to ****WhiteShadowWolf and ****NOMNOMBUNNYWILLEATYOURSOUL (which are both pretty awesome names) for taking the time to review! Words cannot express my happiness :)**

**Oh! And if anyone finds any errors message me and I will fix them.**

**~Manx**


	3. Chapter 2

Yay! It's back!

Okay, so as I was writing this it dawned on me that my story was rated M, and considering the waiting time I intend to force upon my dear readers for the sweet Spamano sex (both characters will sleep with other people before they do each other), I thought I'd through in a little sexyness. If you don't want to read it, just skip to the first line and read the content after that.

* * *

The Swiss girl had been a simple catch; Antonio knew the sort. She was frail, demure. In want of a strong male hand to lead her, as all women were. Admittedly, she had such a man: her conceivably mad elder brother who brandished a blade faster than an officer of the British Royal Navy. Unfortunately for the Spaniard, the former was far more competent than the latter.

She coughed a bit to show her discomfort and remarked upon her unsure state of mind. The Spaniard whispered false declarations of love and empty promises of commitment, all while slowly coaxing her delicate head downwards. He lowered his clothing, and once more directed her face to his groin, her dazed body proving easy to manipulate. Her jaw slackened in apprehension and the pirate took the opportunity to shove her open mouth around his cock.

She looked up at him, her wide teary eyes begging for breath. She could choke upon his manhood and he would hardly care, for Antonio was very much lost in fantasy.

He could sense the girl's fondness. It was in the saliva oozing from her lips. It was in the delicate shakes that wracked her petite frame. It was in the hopeful gleam of her turquoise orbs. Every aspect of her countenance cried: "if I do this, he will stay with me." Despite the satiating sensations rolling from his lower body and trailing up his spine, he could not inhibit the short spike of nausea that pierced his stomach when he witnessed her devotion. Antonio did not wish to look at the girl whose innocence he was spoiling and whose feeble heart he would soon crush beneath his boot upon discovery of the brigand's deception. He only wished to feel good, unburdened by such grim realities that so often plagued the captain of a pirate vessel.

Antonio fixed his gaze upon the blonde braids which bounced with the frantic movement of the girl's head. As the Spaniard was further and further consumed by pleasure, the power of his sight waned and those braids faded away, replaced by the dark lustrous locks that appeared ofttimes in his dreams.

He imagined that the lips wrapped around his member were a light rose colour. Soft and pouting. Pouting… And the skin that graced those hands would not be pale and slick with perspiration. No… Bronze willowy fingers, he thought, would gently brush across his flesh, teasing. The person who belonged to those lips and those fingers would not be afraid. Rather, this person would spit on fear, at least in voice, though in mind secretly desirous of approval. And the eyes… Amber eyes would meet his own, the fire in them so real that it _burned_.

And it was all too much too soon and Antonio's pleasure peaked. He came in the poor girl's mouth, utterly apathetic to her sickened squeal and mildly dismayed by the white liquid dripping down her chin. He pushed her away and quickly redressed himself. Feeling callous, he tossed a few coins indifferently in her direction. The meaning of this slight action was not lost on the blonde. He heard the girl's soft gasping sobs, but did not endeavour to comfort her. Or say anything at all, really. He could not be bothered to waste his time a desperate woman he would never again encounter.

Antonio was a selfish lover.

* * *

The cabalistic hands of fate that pull the strings of human events may, upon the rarest of occasions, tangibly interfere in the lives of mere men. Unbeknownst to the pirate, that very midday was one such time.

The Spaniard's ship had been voyaging off the Sicilian coasts, when waylaid by the pirate crew of the Englishman, Arthur Kirkland (Antonio hesitated to designate him "captain"). Some minor damages were sustained. The harm was not great, though it did necessitate several cares to be taken in the nearest port for a few days. Antonio examined his map, and found that the safest place to dock was an insignificant and bucolic town. The same one he had visited eight months ago, when he happened upon the sullen Italian boy who would alter the avenues of his heart.

* * *

After ensuring his crew was labouring satisfactorily, the pirate sauntered along the dirt path to the church. He spent most of his visit to the idyllic town in that church, though he could not fathom why. He was never one for religion, or rather the conventional Catholic sort. His religion, Antonio would claim, was erected on faith; faith in the cacophonic rhythm of waves beating against a vessel's frame, faith in the salted air carrying wind from across the world, faith in the treasures to be had upon the water, measureable or otherwise.

Had the Spaniard wished to slip within the modest building unnoticed, he was deeply misguided.

"Toni! Toni!" The Spaniard was mildly surprised the ebullient boy recalled his existence. Antonio only vaguely remembered him and was unable to assign a name to his comely face. He jumped up and down, waving his arms in furious excitement. The pirate laughed, surprised at receiving such a warm welcome after so much time. He examined the Italian's appearance. The boy really was a fetching thing, Antonio considered. Why had he not taken him during his last visit, he wondered to himself?

"Look! Lovi! Toni is here!"

Lovi?

Oh….

Perhaps that is why.

Lovino had been sitting on the church's stone floor, his face buried in a book when his brother had called out. Instantly, the pirate recollected him; he had seen the boy's form constantly through the entirety of his eight-month absence. However it was the very way in which he had beheld him that bothered Antonio so.

Gazing at those shining russet tresses, a sole unrelenting curl bobbing up and down with every breath, he knew. Spellbound by the soundless tapping of his delicate fingers upon the ground, he knew. Inebriated from the extension of his creamy olive skin so delightfully exposed in the heat, he knew. He knew this figure well, its every feature charted in the Spaniard's lecherous fancies. Perhaps, had his mind not been so otherwise occupied, he may have questioned his long-felt attraction for a person he met for such a short time many months ago.

The boy's body stiffened, and he slowly twisted his head until he was staring directly at Antonio, his eyes wide with astonishment. His face enlivened into an expansive, penetrating grin so unlike that of what he would expect from the Italian. Antonio's heart stopped when he witnessed the sublime sight. Though he preferred women, he had engaged in the occasional "tête-à-tête" with other men -for the Spaniard was a pirate after all, and nothing could lessen one's lust when women are far away and separated by miles of impenetrable cerulean sludge- and he could not deny that Lovino's visage, blunt nevertheless, was utterly bewitching. Bewitching…. Yes, the word defined him impeccably. The Italian was his own little witch; how else could he be always with the pirate yet never truly so? Oh, Antonio had seen many smiles in his day: sadistic ones, fictitious ones, and mournful ones, but the magnitude of this one grin was unparalleled by all others. Regrettably, ephemeral was the Italian's expression of happiness and the characteristic scowl returned in its stead before he could properly admire it.

It was maddening, absolutely maddening that the pirate could feel so drawn!

He must bed him soon, lest Antonio lose any semblance he still maintained of self-restraint.

* * *

Antonio spent a considerable amount of his spare time in the town, amongst the people, though especially in the church with the intention of truly savouring the sights unlike how he had done in his last visit. The Spaniard found his vision fastened to the Italian youth. Lovino would walk past Antonio, his own eyes avoiding the Spanish man at all costs, and the pirate's gaze would follow. Savouring the sights, indeed.

There was so much about Lovino the Spaniard did not know, but he wanted to know. The starry look in his eyes when he would glance at the stained glass figure of the Virgin Mary, a dull sight that somehow held sentiment for the virtuous Italian. What he saw in her, in this whole place, was beyond the realm of Antonio's understanding. Religion had not been kind to him, had not held any promises, any truth, for him. He believed in God, yes, but above that he believed in the things that truly mattered: sovereigns, status, and the sea.

And Lovino desired him. It was hardly a secret; his cheeks flushed when aware of the pirate's presence, his eyes purposefully elsewhere as he nibbled his lower lip. Lovino would prove a more difficult lay than most ladies, easily coerced into the bed. No, he could not be forced. He is the sort to stumble and plunge headfirst.

Antonio hoped to lure the Italian onto his ship. Hopefully, once the Spaniard had his fun… well, there was no harm in mixing business with pleasure, and the ship could always use another cabin-boy….

It was this very line of thought that brought Antonio to Lovino once more, on the final day of his stay.

"My offer," the pirate stated in the most suave voice he could produce, "still stands, Lovi." The younger male's body stiffened. He did not ask for clarification; he would have remembered the words the pirate spoke. He wore a frown, as he always did, but his the expression in his eyes was pained.

"It does not have to be one or the other. You can have your faith and earn a living too," the Spaniard said with a half-hearted laugh upon his tongue. He reached out and rested his hand against the Italian's elbow, and the artificial anger on his face was replaced with astonishment. He stared, horrified, at the older man's hands, as if they were sodden with blood. He tore his arm away; he looked down at the floor, his air unreadable.

"I could go, if I wanted… And I do… I am strong! I can go! I can go, and not lose myself… I can."

Antonio could not hold back a smirk.

* * *

"This is it," Lovino said as Antonio led him aboard the large vessel, his eyes lingering upon the rich dark wooden structure of the starboard side. The sails were yellowed with age and weathering. A large, though rotten and warped, cross served as its figurehead. It was a truly magnificent construct, able to house several dozen men.

"This is it," the Spaniard repeated. "This is my ship. A lovely battleship, she is. Built for combat. You will take good care of her, I hope." The boy merely nodded, his legs unsteady on the swaying ship's surface.

"Her name to those who know her solely by reputation," the pirate said, "is La Fortuna, but to us, to the rare few privileged enough to know her intimately, she is Maria."

"Maria…" Lovino whispered. The Spaniard smiled, and directed the Italian to the ship's mates: an abrasive Prussian with blond hair so pale and brown eyes with an eerie reddish hue, and a lascivious Frenchman who would surely show the lad his new place upon Maria's hierarchy. The Spaniard knew he would find no allies here, for Antonio had not forgotten Lovino's past injustices, so to speak. And now that he had the boy in his clutches…

There would be hell to pay.

* * *

I got binders. I got binders full of Spamano.

Congratulations! You survived my shitastic transitional chapter. Thankfully, I was able to include some more characters in the story. There will be even more to come, I assure you!

This chapter was pretty boring, but the fun- drama, really- is on its merry way, I swear!

On another note, I've been watching, Band of Brothers on the verge of obsessively. I finally thought I would be capable to watch a show like any other normal person, but I watched episode seven and by the end I was bombarded with gigantic waves of shippy feels for Spiers and Lipton. I want to see some fanfiction from all of you soon! *wags fingers*

Every day I lose a little more respect for myself. *sigh*

~Manx


	4. Chapter 3

Lovino wiped the soiled rag across his forehead, indifferent to the fact that he had used it mere moments ago to clean the filthy flooring of the ship. The Italian was resting now, night had fallen and no one had come to bother him thus far. He, leaned against the side railing, salty spray from the waves raining down upon him, and reached down the thin drapery of his shirt, his fingers trailing a descendent path on his neck until they found the wooden necklace for which they searched. Clasping his rosary beads, cherishing the cool touch of those muted red beads against his palms, those burning calloused palms, he sighed. His beads… they had been the only possession of his he brought along for his impulsive adventure. He had left his treasured Bible at home.

He regarded the night sky -that ever mocking sky- pensively and devotedly, as if he believed that the meaning of life was written somewhere in the stars if he could find it. It was the same sky he had witnessed countless times in his town. It gave him hope –a false hope nonetheless- that some things remained constant despite the ever-changing world. Perhaps, the same could one day be said of him? Perhaps he would stay as he once was, as he always was, and resist the malicious forces that sought to corrupt him?

Buried deep inside his heart, he knew this was not true.

A fortnight… had so much time truly passed? Since he had last seen Father Roma? Since he had last seen his brother? Oh, Feli. Lovino would never admit it, even to himself, but he missed his brother's effervescent temperament. There was a void in his life where a companion and confidant ought to be. Would he ever encounter his brother again? Did he even desire to do so in his current state, when a sheet of grime covered his skin and he had hardly thought of prayer at all?

All the Italian knew was that he had spent the duration of his time at sea labouring. That is, if labouring were synonymous with cleaning. They were sickeningly slatternly, and as cabin-boy it was Lovino's duty to follow them about, taking care of their messes like a disgruntled mother. And Antonio? Lovino had barely heard a word from the man. He could not help but wonder if the lack of attention was purposeful, for the Spaniard was always present; they were the Sun and the Moon, orbiting opposite each other about the world on a circular axis, travelling the same paths yet never meeting.

Already, he regretted boarding the damn ship. The pirates (were they now his fellows?) were truly monsters. Contemptible, sinful monsters. Yet there was something so very childlike about them. Not innocence (most assuredly not that), but in egotism. A daunting shared mentality among them: _'I shall take what I want because I want it.'_ They were all selfish, avaricious, misguided, and deluded children, and their cradle was the waves.

Yes, he would assuredly meet his demise on this godforsaken ship. Maria, that was the name. Maria… like a knife on invisible snake's feet, a knife creeping along, softly creeping along, a softly creeping knife… Maria.

Lovino yawned, and a wave of exhaustion washed over him. Sleep… sleep was good. He needed sleep. Sluggishly, he dragged his body from the floor, and staggered down the shoddy stairs, in the direction of the crew's quarters, where all the men would likely be. The Italian hoped they let him be; all he wanted was to rest after a long day's work.

On his way, Lovino's ear caught some suspicious sounds coming from the storage room. An eerie groaning… A person in pain? He longed to ignore it, to simply proceed to his bed and damn the fool who may or may not have gotten themselves injured, but a niggling inner voice, the vestigial traces of his religious upbringing, scolded him for his apathy. Lovino clenched his fists, upset at the disturbance, but moved to open the door. He stuck his head in, intending to inquire as to the well-being of its occupants though he never did so.

The sight was shocking to say the least.

Two men. Fully unclothed. One laid upon a crate of rations as the other leered above him. Oh, the noises Lovino overheard were not of hurt but of lust. Their bodies melded together at the lips and at the hips. "Oh, yes!" Lovino heard.

Lovino wanted to do something. To scream at them, to slam the door before his face and flee as far as the confines of the vessel would allow him and erase the memory of what he was observing from his mind forever. But he did none of those things. He was rooted to the spot, an abnormal, fiery sensation in his gut. His trousers were growing tight, his heart was beating excitedly, his mind clouding, and he was very nearly overcome by temptation: the incredible urge to reach down and relieve some of the pressure…

"Appreciating the sights, little Italian?" Lovino snapped back into control, as breath ghosted against his ear, heavy and warm, and he recognised the accent of the loathsome Frenchman. Lovino whipped around and shoved the man away with all his might, the initial embarrassment of being caught in such a state ebbing to pure wrath. The blond teetered, scrambling to find purchase through his implicit drunken haze. To Lovino's imminent misfortune, he steadied himself, a fitting indignity absent from his expression.

The man chortled and his long greasy hair shook as he rasped. "Oh, mon petit chat has claws! I should inform you dear boy: I enjoy the struggle." The predatory glint in those cruel blue eyes was unmistakable. The Italian's anger rapidly receded to cold fear.

"L-leave me alone, bastard!" Even he was dismayed by the pathetic tremor in his voice. The Frenchman shook his head back and forth and shuffled closer to the younger male

"This is abhorrent! I-I am no woman!"

"Foolish boy," the blond reached forward and clutched Lovino's wrist in an iron grip. "Do you see any women about our lovely vessel? And does it matter in the end? It does not. Pleasure is pleasure regardless of the source, and I intend to make full use of you whether you consent or not."  
Despite the crippling influence of alcohol (honestly, did any benefit come from the antithetical ambrosia?) the Frenchman's strength was greater than his own. In an instant Lovino was forced flush against the wall, his hands pinned above his head. The Italian kicked his legs wildly, anything to cease the act of depravity that would surely follow, but it was all in vain for the blond pressed his body against the younger male's, and Lovino was losing his energy….

Suddenly, the mass behind him was gone. Distantly, he was cognisant of voices, of yelling, in the background but he was unable to decipher the words. His knees buckled; he found it trying to remain on his feet. As the realisation of what very nearly occurred came crushing down upon his shoulders, he sank to the floor, fingerpads still clinging to the wall. The shame was agonising; that he could let himself be trapped in such a state…

No, he refused to think about it. He would not allow himself to acknowledge the fact he was almost tainted in God's eyes. The Italian merely sat in that position until he finally regained control of his breathing, though his heart still thumped at incredible speeds. He twisted himself.

A hand was mere inches from his face. It was large, the appendages angular and square-ish. It was toughened, the years of physical labour evident in the palm like the rings of a tree trunk. But most notably of all, the hand was unfamiliar.

His saviour was not Antonio.

Rather, this man possessed a darker shade of skin, certainly not European, and his flesh was less elastic and his silhouette more stout, though not so as to be displeasing to the eye. He was also very muscular, his figure well-defined beneath his green coat.

However, his most distinctive feature was the outlandish mask he wore over his face. A delicate thing of thing of pure white cloth fabric, its pristine colouring indicative of the care its owner placed in it. His eyes were a lovely hue of auburn.

Like a ghost Lovino gripped the stranger's outstretched hand, and was lifted to his feet as if he were weightless.

"Are you all right?"

Lovino felt as if he could laugh bitterly at the question. Was he all right? Had this man not presumably intervened he would be in a quite a sorry state. Ha! Was he all right…

"I am." It was a lie of course, but it needed to be said. One cannot expect to be open of such feelings with a person one does not know.

"Sadiq."

"What is that suppo—"

"My name, of course." He laughed, and his voice rumbled resoundingly, robust and deep, but also had an uplifting tone, a merry quality to it.

An unspoken understanding flowed between them. A peculiar thought floated through his head: that the man named Sadiq _knew_. Knew what? Lovino could not say. But even after the "riveting" experience he had just undergone, he felt calm. Needless to say, a connection was formed between the pair.

"Lovino Vargas. Though you can address me as 'Lovi' if you wish. Everyone else seems to do so irrespective of my objections."

"Well, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, _Lovino_."

Sadiq held out his hand for the Italian once again, though this time was imperceptibly unlike the first just minutes ago. The Italian touched the other man's hand with his own and was surprised from the simple warmth in such an action. But despite the apparent charity of this stranger, he observed a peculiar sense that in some indistinct manner unknown to him, it was oddly superficial. He stole a hurried glance at the mask and disregarded the notion.

Thunder roared in the distance. An approaching storm….

* * *

**Meh. Yeah, I didn't really edit this. I sat down over two hours ago and told myself: "Manx, you will write this damn chapter, even if it kills you!" And so I did, though I'm still alive. For now.**

**Ugh. Writing is hard. I invent all these incredible ideas inside my head, and yet, transferring them onto paper (or computer, in this case) and forming a string of concrete words can be so frustratingly difficult.**

**On another note, I am mildly depressed at the moment. My computer is running slowly (damn video games!) and in an attempt to free up some space, I decided to go and delete all the music I uploaded, thinking: "oh I can just go back and reupload it if need be." Unfortunately, my cell phone was connected and I, in a moment of pure stupidity, unthinkingly deleted all the music on my phone rather than my computer. Then, I could not figure out how to transfer all my music in one simple motion, so I ended up individually transferring every goddamn song. All five hundred of them. And then, I deleted the correct music files, and guess what: it was all in vain and didn't help with my computer issues whatsoever!**

***Sigh***

**Oh! And "American Dreams in an English Village" updated and I was literally rolling around on the floor with glee.**

**~Manx**


	5. Chapter 4

**Happy Thanksgiving, America! I hope you didn't eat too much lest your sultry bod have perished (because America is mad sexy)!**

**Is it sad that when I hear "America" I first think of the hetalia character and not the actual country? Probably.**

**I'm glad you guys want some jealous!Spain because my favourite green-eyed (see what I did there) Spaniard is getting a little tense. Although honestly, I think Sadiq is the only one in Waves with _good_ intentions.**

* * *

Antonio fumbled around in the moist heat of the ship's storage room, searching for the one wine capable of satisfying his present craving. He thumbed across the labels, lingering his fingertips upon each bottle, yet strangely finding fault with the lot. The first was too thin, the second to sour…. Over two dozen unique wines, yet none were tempting. He required something variant from his customary tastes.

Finally, the Spaniard discovered the ideal: a spiced drink from the southern Mediterranean. He examined the brittle paper wrapping, unable to make sense of the strange symbols running across its centre. Egyptian, perchance? Antonio doubted the arid land was the true origin of his chosen spirit, but his interest in the matter was rapidly deteriorating; he could no longer bring himself to care.

Inspecting his collection one last time, Antonio noted the mysterious decline in suitable wines of late. It could only be Francis, for the Frenchman alone possessed the audacity to steal from his cache- he was among the limited group of men gifted with the ability to deflate Antonio's wrath, though such times were few and far between. He was the only one with the key to his wine cupboard, other than Gilbert of course, and it simply could not be him, of that he was certain. The Prussian was far too emphatic of the cheap German swill he supplied the crew. He whispered a momentary thanksgiving that he now possessed the proper currency to acquire a numerous assortment of fine spirits such as the one before him. Not many men with stories similar to his could say the same.

The Spaniard sauntered to his quarters, wine bottle swishing in his hand. Humming as he walked, Antonio repeatedly halted his motions to gesture gaily to the men of his crew. He thought himself an affable captain.

He closed the doors and threw open the drab curtains concealing an embellished glass window. He placed the bottle on a small table, dragging a rickety chair from the room's disused corner. He sank into the seat, his body slouched forward, and sighed. Antonio was drained. Recently he operated as if he had scarcely slept for a fortnight; and this was largely true. He took a large gulp of his drink, struggling to think beyond the haze in his head.

And symbolically perhaps, the bottle toppled, its opening pointed towards Antonio, spilling the soupy contents and staining the white table cloth with dark red liquid. He gathered a portion of the wine from the table into his right hand and raised it over his head- just above eye level- and stared as the fluid dripped languidly from his fingers and his palm, while trails of blood red sprung like rivers from his wrist down to his elbow- tracing veins.

The reflective substance fascinated him; its surface both reflective and revealing. He wondered if he could find the irrefutable meaning of life hidden somewhere in the minuscule droplets?

He caught a glimpse of his necklace shining in those depths...

_He was a child, not far beyond his twelfth year in age. He wandered away from his meagre home in the outskirts of Seville, as he oft was prone to do. He was bored and went into the market district hopeful of finding something, anything surely, to distract him from the painful flaying in his stomach- it was unknown when last he ate. It was a fateful day in spring; the trees were blooming with life-_ _Cherry blossoms magic, frothing and bubbling and there just above his dishevelled form painting the sky with a colour too impossible to describe with mere words such as 'pink' or 'white.' How grim trees created a sight so magnificent in the backstreets with no agreed-upon name was beyond the child's limited understanding._

_The markets flooded with people: men, women, and children. Merchants loudly promoted their substandard yet exorbitant goods, and the patrons chattered together without purpose. All was well as expected, and the lovely commotion and routine of the marketplace masked the presence of dusky clouds as they slowly encircled the city, poised to wage war with heavy rain. Raindrops mortared the ordinary people in the markets, and the weather was not yet warm enough for Antonio to elude the bone chilling shiver rolling up his spine._

_The nearest building was a small shop- teeming with sundry items- unmarked and unassuming. Antonio took shelter there, entering the small shop with trembling limbs and chattering teeth, his clothes now burdensome with the added weight of rainwater._

_It was in that shop that the course of his life was forever altered. _

_He perused the items sorted almost arbitrarily onto disorganised shelves and stands, his head ducked, for the lad was fearful a livid storekeeper would appear to harangue him. Antonio disliked conflicts. _

_He was leafing through a pile of assorted fabrics, unevenly cut and unsalvageable when he perceived a glint in the corner of his eye. He turned around and saw, hanging limply from a shelf, was a hypnotic necklace- the most captivating entity Antonio had ever witnessed._

_The dangling piece was sublime, ebony; a simple chain with a harsh cross-dark as the night sky yet blacker still. It gleamed like power, like justice, and upon first sight Antonio lusted after it, yet he possessed nothing of value of which he may trade for the pendant. Downcast, he averted his gaze from the trinket. He turned to leave, but his mastery over his limbs left him in a sudden rush- a hurried exhalation- and he found himself drawn back to the pendant, grasping the frosty metal centrepiece like salvation. _

_The necklace chain still laced between his fingers, Antonio burst from the store, running as fast as his gawky limbs would take him. Fiery adrenaline seeping through his brain carrying his feet past all limitations, he was cognisant of the slightest motion in his peripheral vision, every footstep pounding in his eardrums like a thousand beating drums. Someone was yelling behind him, but Antonio refused to cease his dash. To stop now, to relinquish the trinket, was inconceivable. He was directionless, no longer sure of where he was or where he was going, yet this very unknowingness felt peculiarly fitting. _

_His legs gave out on the docks. The smell of salty seawater assailed his senses, slowly overpowering the fear and the cold, leaving nothing but pure excitement. His heartbeat calmed as he breathed in the addictive scent. A grand ship sailed past, white sails pulled taught and billowing in the wind. It was fantastic; it was quixotic. The epiphany rang in his ears like one of the many ominous Death Knells that radiated from La Real Iglesia de Santa Ana, slicing through the murky fog - he had finally found his calling. _

Upwards, the memory floated away and Antonio was once more shackled to the constraints of reality.

The urge to cleanse his hands suddenly arose within his mind. Antonio gripped the dry end of the now-soiled table cloth and smeared the wine across the coarse fabric as he attempted to rid himself of it. He glanced at his hands once more and noticed a slight red hue remaining. He had purified his skin as best he could, but the vestigial traces of the red stain remained. He had a melancholic sense that they always would.

Emerging from the oppressive gloom of his quarters he stood on the vessel's deck, watching his beloved crew in their element. Gilbert was bellowing, waving his cutlass in the air with bravado. Francis was… pining after one of the more lissom cabin boys ever so discreetly. Lovino was cleaning the floors, a deceptively intimidating expression adorning his face. Antonio smiled warmly. His happiness was ruined, however, when his gaze levelled upon the filthy Turk leering over the boy, blithely nattering away to the Italian. As was becoming routine.

He could see them, though oftentimes he pretended not to do so. Lovino with the Turkish _canalla_. Disgraceful. Not that the Spaniard was bothered in the slightest, however. It was not as if he, the great Captain Antonio Carriedo, wished to be the object of another's attentions- especially when they were the attentions of a shallow and naïve young Italian he recruited solely on selfish impulse. Why Lovino desired the company of a brute over his own was an enigma.

"Oi! Lovi!" The Spaniard gestured for the Italian to approach. He growled crossly, throwing his mop to the ground. He muttered something indiscernible to the Turk- who bleated like a goat- and marched to Antonio, irritation evident in each step. Lovino huffed audibly, hands on his hips, glaring up at the Spaniard through knitted brows. Antonio suppressed a grin; for some impalpable reason, he found the younger male's quarrelsome nature endearingly comical.

"I need you to fetch Francis," Lovino's eyes widened and the Spaniard placed a hand on Lovino's shoulder. The lad flinched, but made no effort to withdraw from his touch. "Tell the Frenchman I must speak with him. Once you have done so, assist the others with the sail adjustment. "

The shorter man sighed. "Yes, Captain" he said, voice detached. With a final mocking bow, the Italian turned away and Antonio's hands fell to his sides.

He looked again at the Turk. "And as for you, knave…" he called, "Get back to work!"

The knowledge struck him with momentous force: Lovino had not once addressed Antonio by his name. Was the Italian so above him so as not to condescend to even speak his name? Here Antonio was the master, the boss. Here he had made something of himself. It was of no consequence that his title was synonymous with criminal, with villain, or that it possessed a connotation of wantonness, and danger, and perhaps, if one is fortunate, unimaginable wealth. Pirate… His name was a dirty word, a foul stain upon the pristine fabric that was respectable society.

He risked one last glance at the activities on the ship. Lovino with the Turk once more, adjusting the sails together. Heaving the rope in unison, one of the Italian's hands brushed against his for but a moment, the touch so slight and so brief that had Antonio not been focused upon their actions with the utmost scrutiny, he likely would never had seen the thoughtless, yet undeniably intimate act.

Antonio was troubled. Boiling anger rising in his system, he gritted his teeth and retreated back to his quarters, slamming the door on his way. He picked up the wine bottle, looking one more at the wrapping. Turkish was it not? Those foreign symbols… Turkish lettering. He shook the bottle in his hand, smiling as its half-full contents sloshed with every flick of his wrist. Here Antonio was the master, the boss, and he was in complete control.

He threw the bottle on the ground with all his might, revelling in the sharp clang of shattering glass with sadistic glee. He watched the dark liquid pour out of its broken container, dripping for the minute cracks in the floorboards and laughed. A finger found its way to his pendant, gently stroking the icy cross.

He was in complete control.

* * *

**WRITE FANFICTION THEY SAID. IT WILL BE FUN THEY SAID.**

**Blehblehbleh.**

**I am literally shoving the foreshadowing and the symbolism in your faces now. I hope its not too obnoxious. **

**I'm with my family right now, and my mother, being Irish and therefore weird, decided we should have traditional Irish cuisine rather than traditional American cuisine for the holiday. That crazy woman boiled pig's feet! Fucking pig's feet! I'm pretty much stuck with my mashed potatoes and chips with curry for the meal.**

**I swear to God the Irish are terrible cooks.**

**~Manx.**


	6. Chapter 5

**Wow, it's been quite some time, hasn't it? I actually had to go back and reread the last chapter so I could remember exactly what had happened.**

**The long wait? It's probably because of all the puppies I've been kicking.**

**Oh and also cramming for semester exams. I don't even want to think about those. Seriously, there is no middle finger big enough to depict my utter abhorrence for the damn things. I went on a much-needed vacation (if you can even call it that) afterward and spent the whole time freezing my ass off for **_**no reason. **_**I was shanghaied into putting up last minute Christmas lights in the freezing rain, and my friend's family would not take my semi-subtle (really unsubtle) hints to turn up the heat. I was walking about the house with two blankets wrapped around my body. Though admittedly, her (my friend's) "neurotic" tendencies did suddenly become clearer to me. **

**Don't go to the house of a friend's parents for the holidays. It's just as bad as visiting your own family, but here you can't whinge and complain. **

**Ugh. Life is hard. It's hard and nobody understands.**

**I didn't really know what to call the Netherlands or Belgium, so I just used names I've seen in other fics. **

**Now presenting Waves Chapter 5, or as I like to call it: **_**The Gilbert Chapter!**_

**Read the story.**

* * *

'_What was that?'_ wondered the Italian as he toiled away on the deck of a pirate ship. The sun had not risen quite yet, and the dawn sky, normally a lovely sight, radiated an unsettlingly dull orange glow. It was most surely simple paranoia, but Lovino could not escape the awful, foreboding sense that something- some_one_- was behind him. A snake…

Despite the incessant sounds of the crew working and conversing, the boy was highly sensitive to the noise close to himself. The flooring of the deck creaked behind him, and alert Italian whirled around, but saw only Sadiq, his friend, staring.

"Pray tell what is so fascinating about my appearance?"

The Turk fashioned an icy smile. "Your skin. It is darkening." Lovino's eyes narrowed. Sadiq laughed. "I saw it, and supposed _'is he not the most fortunate lad in all of Europe to possess an ally such as myself to shield him from the sun?'_"

The Italian snorted. "Ah yes. Fortunate." He said, his tone dry as was normal, though perchance the slightest hint of levity was present there. "When people mistake me for a Moor, least I shall have you to blame."

Sadiq chuckled heartily and clapped a hand against the Italian's shoulder. Lovino shrugged, seeking to free himself of the almost oppressive weight of the other's grip. However, the Turk refused to relinquish his hold. Lovino sought to turn and inquire as to Sadiq's strange behaviour of late, but before he could do so, the boisterous voice of the Prussian interrupted him.

He stood upon the Captain's balcony, blonde hair stirring in the salt-saturated breeze, he leaned against the wooden railing, his poise confident. When he hollered all the laughter and chatter on the deck fell silent. The crew gradually shuffled under the spot where the brazen man stood, looking up at him expectantly.

"Oi! You smarmy cunts best be obliged, for the Captain says we are making port in Amsterdam upon this very night! All are permitted to come ashore, with the exception of a few men pegged to stay." Some groans erupted among the men, though a sour glare from the man subdued the protests.

"Now get back to it, the lot of you! Captain's orders!" And no one dared to question the Captain.

Lovino glanced over at the helm, and saw the him. The Captain. The Spaniard was intently focused on the wind and the waves, navigating the ship's course. After nearly a month of service aboard the vessel, the Italian gleaned a certain understanding of the pirate captain. Of his Delphian knowledge of the sea. Of his skilled helmsmanship and his practically occult foresight in matters of direction, effortlessly able to avoid the complications of tempests and furious gales.

His gaze travelled to the man beside the Captain, whispering in his ear as the Spaniard nodded, though his intense concentration on the sea ahead never left. It was the Frenchman. The blond turned, noticed Lovino's stare, and gave a slight wave, likely in jest. The Italian shivered.

* * *

"Are you coming ashore?" The Italian asked Sadiq while the pair lowered the sails together.

"I am afraid I cannot. I must stay aboard, as the Captain says, and he has not been kind to me of late. If you intend to leave, then you must make do without me." Sadiq said, and Lovino nodded in agreement. He was about to state he had no intention of disembarking the vessel in that case, but before he could do so, he was interrupted by a specific Prussian.

"Lovino," the man began, "the Captain wants me to look after you tonight. I assume you need it, anyway. I doubt you ever left your backward town. You could learn much from my awesome wisdom."

It required every ounce of willpower he owned, but Lovino managed to refrain from insulting the man. "What exactly do you suggest we do?"

"Stop by a tavern. Get sloshed." The Italian narrowed his eyes. "It is Amsterdam, after all. What did you expect?" The Prussian said. "Next time we visit Rome you can look at all the pretty architecture and share a meal with the Pope."

"Do I have a choice in the matter?" Lovino asked, hi tone blatantly disgruntled.

The Prussian grinned. "Absolutely not."

* * *

"Hallo Lars, dear friend!" The Prussian exclaimed in the insufferable manner only he so shamelessly possessed, as he sauntered to the counter of a rundown tavern on the corner of a rather suspicious Amsterdam street, a reluctant, though not entirely unwilling, Lovino trailing behind him. The other man's expression, initially incredulous, rapidly evolved into one of contempt, a harsh scowl etched into his jaw as they grew closer to the bartender.

The bartender was an intimidating blond man with hair shaped into spikes. He glanced up from the bar and examined Lovino's companion with considerable amusement and disgust. "Ah, Gilbert. Still alive, I see. I suppose it was futile to hope you would drown in the rainwater last time I tossed you out." Lovino's gaze flitted between the two. Friends indeed.

"Of course it was! You know me! I shall always come back to your lovely establishment. In fact, I am likely unique from everyone else who ever came here in that regard." The Dutchman snorted humourlessly.

"The usual?" The Prussian nodded, and rifled through his coin purse. He threw a few coins on the counter, and the resulting clinging noise nicely complimented the slam of the tankard on its surface. He looked over at Lovino, who was standing uncomfortably near the entrance, and beckoned him to come forward.

"Lars, do you still have any goods in the back rooms? I think my associate here could use a piece. I can pay." He said, and the Dutchman agreed.

"This way," The Dutchman led Lovino through a door behind the bar into a dingy hallway. He pulled a key from his trouser pocket and inserted it into the knob of a dusty wooden door at the hall's end. He knocked twice, and twisted the key. With a shove, he opened the door and pushed the Italian inside.

"Show the lad a good time, Bella." The blond said, and shut the door leaving Lovino inside.

There was a scantily dressed woman in the room.

She had blonde hair, unevenly cut above her shoulders, and a vivid red bow tied around. Her fair skin was unblemished, yet despite the apparent perfection of her complexion, she seemed rather plain. She sat upon a filthy old bed-the only furniture in the room- and looked up at Lovino, smiling. The lingerie was white and lacy, likely a finer quality than the woman it adorned.

"My name is Bella," she said as she untied the cloth surrounding her chest. "What is your name?" she inquired once the garment was removed.

Lovino was speechless and unable to move, gaping at the sight before him. He was conflicted, knowing he should look away from this wanton woman, yet somehow incapable of doing so.

The woman believed his silence was purposeful. "I understand. It must be undesirable for a dirty prostitute to know who you are. But that is fine with me. The beauty of this business is that we have no need for names." Her drawers slipped off her womanhood.

Now stood before him a naked woman, vulnerable and exposed. And yet she was hardly angelic; veritably the antipode, in truth. She would most certainly poison his soul. Perhaps, that is exactly what Lovino needed.

He made no effort to stop her when she closed the distance between them. He made no effort to stop her when she carefully removed his apparel and maneuverer him onto the bed. He made no effort to stop her when she mounted him and bucked and squirmed above him. Lovino's mind was elsewhere, yet despite his dazed state, his body responded subconsciously, thrusting up into the whore on top of him.

When it was over, the awareness of the event that had occurred dawned on the Italian. A wave of repulsion washed through him, and he hurriedly fled the room, and once back in the tavern, he purchased his first ale.

* * *

"How was it?" The Prussian came

"It was…" he hesitated, swallowing down the saliva accumulated in his mouth, "satisfactory."

The Prussian flashed him a perceptive look. "Truly that terrible?"

Lovino groaned, and rested his head upon his hand. "I suppose I never imagined I would perform acts so… so vile. It seems as if everything I have done of late has been a direct contradiction to everything I ever learned. " Gilbert grimaced in response- silent agreement.

"Did you…?" The Italian gestured to the back-door from whence he came.

"No," he paused to take a long swig of ale, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. He smacked his lips, sucking the moisture into his mouth. "I have a partner of my own. Waiting for me in Austria. Though perhaps that is merely a reassurance I employ merely to delude myself," he said.

"Are you wedded, sir?"

"Please, call me Gilbert!" He laughed, though the Italian did not fathom the justification for his amusement. "Me? Wedded? Certainly not. Though times I feel as if I am." Lovino cocked a brow, confused by the vague admission.

"And you are faithful?" The Italian queried.

"Indeed. Well, as faithful as one can be, in my predicament. Away at sea for months at a time- a man has desires, as you may know, and there is no sense mastering them- but I do try, I suppose. It is the ideal, is it not? Rather quixotic. A man and his love…"

He laughed acerbically, almost listlessly. "Were life only so simple…"

Gilbert's locks of flaxen hair seemed to nearly radiate an extraordinary white in the candlelight amongst the dull orange glow of burning flames. He sighed.

"Lad, allow me to enlighten you to the secret of people: Changing ourselves, especially for love, is an impossible feat. Upon my every sporadic return to Austria, I claim: 'Never again shall I leave my lovely, yet tedious home.' And upon each occurrence I am believed, by both my love and myself. And once we have settled contentedly into the conventional and concurrently prosaic mechanisms of domestic life, I awaken in the witching time of night and, as if possessed by some hellish force, withdraw to the nearest port city, and board the first pirate vessel that will have me. There is no change. Only a mask put in place to hide the fact that we are still the same."

"A mask?" Lovino questioned- for he was perplexed by the unexpected philosophical direction their once basic conversation had taken.

"A mask," he said assuredly. "The masks we adorn are much more than mere falsehoods. They represent our way of life, rife with ubiquitous mendacities. Deceiving others to deceive ourselves. "

"That is…" The Italian began, initially unsure, though gaining boldness as his thoughts churned rapidly inside his head. "That is absolutely untrue! All of it! Repentant sinners may attain repose in faith through acts of atonement- serving their punishment- and an unwavering devotion to God."

He pondered the statement for a moment. "I have a question then, if you would indulge me. Is religion invariably woven with goodness? Its sole source?"

"Without a doubt." The response was instinctive.

"Assuming what you say is true, what does that imply about yourself, hmm?" Lovino must have made a face inadvertently, for the Prussian continued: "Oh, do not feign ignorance. If your theology is the determining factor in whether a person is good or otherwise, as you so claim, then in which category do you reside? You are no longer the epitome of Catholic wholesomeness. You, who labours on a raider ship- therefore a thief by association at best. You, who just bred a cheap tart in the back room of a tavern. You cling to false principles."

Lovino was utterly stupefied by this omission, and his grasp of language eluded him. Gilbert started again: "Your perception, boy, is the wrong one. It is one thing to read the Bible and hear the teachings of Christ, and to _live _them. Most people do not."

"And you do live them?"

"Oh no, not me. I only look after myself."

"A selfish, deceitful bastard you are, Gilbert." The Italian said darkly

"Indeed. But at least I am honest about it."

And that was that.

* * *

**New OTP: Romano x the World. **

**Every country. Everywhere.**

**I apologise for Gilbert at the beginning of the chapter. I just find an unexplainable enjoyment in picturing Gilbert walking around saying things like "smarmy cunts." It did turn pretty serious at the end though. (My Hetalia headcanon includes a depressed/bitter drunk Prussia)**

**I'm actually glad that I made all these changes. I would say more than half of this chapter was rewritten and entirely different from my original draft that I typed up Sunday. All that stuff will Gilbert didn't happen. It was just a bunch of bullshit purple prose- purely filler material. Although I must say, I have become somewhat disillusioned with the "grandiose" project that is **_**Waves**_**. The more of it I write, the less of it I seem to like. I suppose Antoine de Saint-Exupery was right: "**_**Perfection is achieved, not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away."**_

**For Christmas this year, my family sent me a wide and not entirely relevant assortment of gift cards. However, those family members who did not send me ten dollar gift cards to Olive Garden (the Hussie related significance presumably was lost on my dear, dear bitch cousin) got me iTunes ones. I decided for the first time that instead of buying music on iTunes, I would check out some of the other stuff they had for sale. I was floored by the amount of bullshit available! Anyway, I was perusing the television shows and I saw Death Note was offered. I clicked on it, thinking about how I hadn't watched the anime in five eva, and read through the description. Then I saw the date. 2007. Over five years have passed since Death Note was released. My first exposure to Japanese animation and manga. It was strange to think: five years ago I was a nerdy, lanky, pale kid in early adolescence who never really thought about ethics and philosophy, and didn't have an answer to questions like "is it right to kill a criminal?" or "do the ends justify the means?" assuming I could even comprehend the magnitude of such inquiries. Death Note blew me away. It lead me to question all the moral principles drilled into our heads in childhood. In that way, I was able to overlook all its faults, and there were several. I truly believe the show is timeless, and though I hesitate to say "masterpiece," I somehow think it does qualify as one. (Though it may just be the nostalgia talking)**

**In brief, Death Note was fucking awesome and is still fucking awesome. BUT NOT THE MOVIE. THE MOVIE SUCKED. IT SUCKED, IT SUCKED, IT SUCKED.**

**Please, feel free to contest everything I just said. In fact, feel free to contest my writing as well. I have yet to receive any hate for **_**Waves**_**, and I consider acquiring your first hater to be a significant milestone in any writer's career. Fanfiction or otherwise.**

**But I digress.**

**~Manx**


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